The FitzOsbornes at War

by Michelle Cooper

  This task has become even more urgent in the last month, because the Nazis have taken over the southern bit of France that they’d previously allowed the Vichy government to administer.

  ‘Why not ask her about all this?’ I said. ‘She’d tell you the truth.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of,’ he said.

  I could only assume that all this foolishness was the result of his stressful work, combined with his long separations from Veronica. Daniel’s the most important person in the world to Veronica, outside our family – anyone can see that.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ he said, catching my exasperated look but misinterpreting it. ‘I know I’m being ridiculous. I haven’t any right to ask for reassurances from her! She’s entitled to fall in love with whomever she wants. It’s not as though we’re . . .’

  ‘Engaged?’

  ‘Well, I’d ask her to marry me, if I thought there was the slightest possibility she’d say yes.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in marriage.’

  ‘I don’t, really. It all seems so bureaucratic and repressive. Personal relationships oughtn’t to have anything to do with the government. But then, I’ve always thought of myself as quite uninterested in owning things – or people – and look at the way I’m behaving now! Perhaps marriage is actually a very sensible way of managing jealousy and possessiveness. Perhaps people aren’t very good at sharing, after all.’

  ‘That doesn’t bode well for the Beveridge plan,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he said gloomily. ‘Oh, I don’t know – about marriage, I mean. It’s still a very inequitable institution for women. I wouldn’t blame Veronica in the least for not wanting to consider it. All that business of having to give up one’s job, even change one’s name –’

  I smiled. It might as well have been Veronica talking.

  ‘Perhaps you could offer to become a FitzOsborne, instead?’ I suggested. ‘Although then you’d have to stop being a Bloom.’

  ‘I wouldn’t care. It isn’t even our real family name. My grandparents changed it from Rosenblum when they arrived in England. They knew that having a name that was obviously Jewish would be a terrible disadvantage here.’

  ‘How awful!’ I said. ‘I mean, that they felt they had to do that. But at least attitudes are better now.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Well, since the war started,’ I said. ‘I mean, you never see any of those disgusting slogans painted on walls now. And the British Union of Fascists is banned.’

  ‘What does that matter, when so many in the government are blatantly anti-Semitic? When the only Jewish member of the War Cabinet is forced to resign because the Prime Minister says there might be “prejudice against him”?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Leslie Hore-Belisha.’

  ‘Oh, but that was when Chamberlain was Prime Minister. Chamberlain was an idiot, everyone knows that.’

  ‘Chamberlain was acting on the advice of the King and the military. And Churchill’s not much better. Most of the upper classes are the same. Look at your aunt. Imagine what she’d say if Veronica announced she was going to marry a Jew.’

  ‘I don’t think Aunt Charlotte would care much, right now,’ I said. ‘She’s too upset about Toby. Besides, you aren’t actually very Jewish, are you?’ The last time I’d been to a National Gallery concert with Daniel, he’d bought us both Spam sandwiches for luncheon. He didn’t even believe in God.

  ‘Well, perhaps I ought to be far more Jewish,’ he said, with uncharacteristic ferocity. ‘Given what’s happening to all the Jews in Europe –’

  He broke off and looked away.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘What’s happening to the Jews?’

  He just shook his head. I remembered what Veronica had said, about Daniel interrogating German officers. What could he have heard? I know that the Nazis are often arresting Jews, and putting them in camps, but once the war’s over, they’ll all be let out, won’t they?

  ‘Churchill is determined to defeat Hitler,’ I reassured Daniel, ‘and so are the Americans. The Allies just need a bit more time to plan a Second Front, so that it all works properly. We will win the war, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Sorry. I’m just in a horrible mood, that’s all. No wonder Veronica’s avoiding me.’

  ‘She’s not avoiding you,’ I said, determined he should understand that, at least. ‘She’ll be home soon, and then you can –’

  ‘No, I really ought to be going,’ he said, without looking at his watch. ‘I don’t want to miss my train.’

  He thanked me for luncheon and for listening to his ‘wretched ramblings’, then trudged off.

  Well, that certainly puts my own unhappiness into perspective, doesn’t it?

  Boxing Day, 1942

  I’D HOPED CHRISTMAS MIGHT CHEER us all up a bit, but when we arrived at Milford, everything was so topsy-turvy that I felt more unsettled than ever. Aunt Charlotte was rushing about making cups of tea and fetching aspirins for Barnes, who’d slipped over on the icy front path that morning and sprained her ankle. Barnes was ensconced in one of the two armchairs pulled up to the sitting room fire, her leg propped on a footstool. The other armchair was occupied by Carlos, his snores providing a not-very-harmonious accompaniment to the concert playing on the wireless. Most of the sofa cushions had been arranged on the floor in a series of steps to make it easier for him to climb up there.

  ‘Carlos mustn’t sleep on the ground,’ Henry explained. ‘The draughts are bad for his arthritis.’

  Henry herself is being conspicuously helpful, hauling in armfuls of firewood, driving the pony cart to the village for groceries, tramping through the snow to feed the hens, even making a big pot of vegetable soup for luncheon today. Of course, all of this is to demonstrate how grown-up and responsible she is, so that she’ll be allowed to leave school. Aunt Charlotte is being annoyingly indecisive about this issue, while Veronica and I maintain that sixteen-and-a-half is still far too young to join up. The two of us discussed it as we gave the attic bedrooms an unseasonal, but much needed, spring clean.

  ‘Imagine being given the opportunity to go to school,’ said Veronica, ‘then wanting to leave.’

  ‘Not everyone’s an intellectual like you,’ I said, ‘and I bet if you’d gone to Henry’s school, you’d have been bored stiff.’

  ‘It’s true the academic standards there don’t seem terribly high,’ Veronica admitted, ‘and I expect they’ll fall even lower now that half the teaching staff’s been called up.’

  ‘I don’t actually mind if Henry leaves at the end of this school year,’ I said. ‘I just don’t want her joining the services. It’s been bad enough worrying about Toby and Simon – I don’t want her in any danger. I wish she’d simply stay here at Milford and work on the farm, but she’s so desperate to have her revenge on the Nazis.’

  ‘Yes, she must be the most bloodthirsty vegetarian in England,’ Veronica agreed. ‘You know, these floorboards really need a good scrub.’

  ‘Better not, they’ll freeze over in this weather before they have a chance to dry. Besides, there’s only about half a bar of soap left in the laundry.’

  ‘We should have brought our soap coupons,’ she said.

  ‘I used them all up last week,’ I said. I suddenly felt flat and tired. It didn’t feel like Christmas at all. No Christmas tree. No Christmas goose, no oranges, no plum pudding. No wrapping paper for the presents. Worst of all, no Toby or Simon. This was the fourth Christmas of the war. How many more of them would there be? What if this ended up being another Hundred Years War? (Which, come to think of it, had gone on even longer than a hundred years.) I sank down onto one of the beds, feeling very depressed.

  ‘Should we go downstairs now and clean Aunt Charlotte’s room?’ Veronica was wondering aloud.

  ‘Not just yet,’ I said. ‘She went in there after she accidentally called Henry “Tobias”. I think she wants to be alone for a
bit.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Veronica, frowning. ‘Right.’

  ‘Thank Heavens for Barnes,’ I said. ‘I really don’t know how Aunt Charlotte would manage without her support.’ I was glad I’d found Barnes a really nice present. There’d been nothing much in the department stores, so I was giving everyone second-hand books, but I’d come across a set of leather-bound Agatha Christies in near-perfect condition in a shop in Charing Cross Road. Barnes loves detective novels, but hardly ever gets to the library in Salisbury these days. ‘How old do you think she is?’ I asked Veronica.

  ‘Barnes? Not sure. She’s the sort of person who looks forty for most of her life, isn’t she? She must be older than Aunt Charlotte, though.’

  ‘Fifty-five or so, then. It’s a wonder she never married.’

  ‘She and Aunt Charlotte are turning into the Ladies of Llangollen,’ Veronica said.

  Then Henry yelled that Daniel was on the telephone, and Veronica dropped her broom and rushed downstairs. She’d been terribly concerned when I’d explained about Daniel’s visit (I hadn’t mentioned the marriage bit, just that he’d seemed very downhearted and needed to talk with her). She’d arranged to meet him the following day, and then they’d had a long, serious conversation, partly about themselves, but mostly about his work.

  And this is where it all gets very vague, because his job is so secret. However, from what I gather, he’d been working at a place where very high-ranking German officers were being kept prisoner. It wasn’t that they were being tortured. In fact, it seems the very opposite – that they were treated almost as guests at a grand country house, presumably to encourage them to relax and talk amongst themselves. I wonder if it was set up so that fluent German-speakers like Daniel could pretend to be officers, too, and mingle with the prisoners? Or perhaps he had to act as their servant? Or just secretly record their conversations and translate them? Imagine poor Daniel having to listen to fanatical Nazis vilifying Jews and Communists for hours on end! But Veronica thinks it was even worse than that, that he heard the details of some horrifying new Nazi scheme.

  ‘Of course, he couldn’t say anything about his work to me,’ Veronica said. ‘This is all just conjecture on my part. But there have been rumours at the Foreign Office about a change in Nazi policy.’

  ‘Hitler’s not going to try to invade Britain, is he?’

  ‘No, no, it’s to do with the Jews. They’re being arrested at an even faster rate now – not just in Poland and Germany, but in France, the Netherlands, even Italy. Something’s going on, but no one’s sure exactly what.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re being forced to work in Nazi factories, doing really dangerous jobs,’ I said, with a shudder. ‘Making ammunition. Or bombs.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Veronica, her grim tone suggesting something much worse. But what could be worse? Death, of course, but the Nazis couldn’t be planning to kill all the Jewish people living in the occupied territories. There must be millions of them. Apart from being insanely evil, it wouldn’t even be possible, surely?

  But regardless of whatever vileness Hitler is planning, it seemed obvious to Veronica that Daniel was on the verge of becoming really ill from the stress, and that a change of job would be a very good idea. He agreed, but felt there wasn’t much he could do about it. However, when Veronica and I approached the Colonel for advice, he turned out to be looking for more German-speakers for some secret project of his, one that has suddenly become vital to the war effort. So, after a few interviews and tests, Daniel was transferred to a place in Buckinghamshire. It is a bit further away from London, but presumably does not involve having to interact with Nazis, and Daniel sounds much happier already. Veronica reported after his telephone call that he’d found lodgings with some other people who work at the same place.

  ‘He says his colleagues are really nice and the job is very interesting,’ she announced cheerfully. After she’d gone into the kitchen to help Henry with dinner, Aunt Charlotte turned to me and said, with a sort of glum resignation, ‘She’s going to marry that man, isn’t she?’

  I thought it far more likely they’d end up living together, but that would be even less appealing to Aunt Charlotte than a registry wedding, so I just made noncommittal noises.

  ‘Oh, well,’ she sighed, ‘at least his father has money.’ Then she went off to see if Barnes needed another hot water bottle.

  4th March 1943

  IT’S TOBY’S BIRTHDAY TODAY. Veronica was red-eyed and silent at breakfast, and the postman brought careful, kind notes from Rupert, Daniel and Julia. I telephoned Milford when I came home from work, but Aunt Charlotte was too upset to talk, although Barnes reported our aunt had been ‘bearing up remarkably well’ until then.

  Nearly everyone is acting as though Toby’s dead. It’s been more than nine months, and I think I’ve just about given up hope. There are times when I actually wish I knew for certain he was dead. Then I could mourn properly. As it is, we’re like people flung up into the air after a bomb blast. At some undisclosed moment in the future, we’ll come crashing down and smash into pieces, but for now, we flail about, suspended in a choking grey cloud.

  If there was some indication of an end to the war – if all this suffering seemed to have a purpose – then it might be easier to bear. But the terrible slaughter in Russia and elsewhere continues, and London is more battered and dreary than ever. There is still the occasional air raid – not long ago, a school was hit in broad daylight, killing dozens of children and their teachers. At the start of the year, Mr Churchill and Mr Roosevelt announced they would only accept ‘unconditional surrender’ from Germany – in other words, if the Germans do come to their senses and decide they want an end to the fighting, even if they get rid of Hitler, we won’t negotiate with them. All they can do is throw themselves upon our mercy, which of course, they’d be far too proud (or scared) to do. I suppose this means the war will drag on for years and years. I cannot even remember ‘normal life’. It seems incredible that there was ever a time when children played in Kensington Gardens, when shops displayed pyramids of oranges and lemons, when street lights blazed out at night. The past has vanished – and yet I find it impossible to imagine any kind of future. All that exists is this endless, bleak present.

  29th April, 1943

  POOR VERONICA NODDED OFF INTO her dinner last night. She didn’t get home till eleven o’clock, for the third time this week. It’s one crisis after another at the Foreign Office. First, Spain announced it was going to send any escaping Allied prisoners of war that it caught straight back to the Nazis, and threatened to close its border with France. Then it ordered its officials in the border zone to track down anyone who might be helping people flee the Nazis.

  ‘So much for Spain claiming to be neutral,’ said Veronica bitterly. ‘Obviously, Hitler’s putting pressure on Franco, but it also gives the Spanish Fascists an excuse to harass some of their old adversaries. It’s mostly Basques guiding people across the mountains from France, you see. They know the land and they’re expert at evading the Guardia Civil patrols. But all the guides are having to lie low for the moment, and Michael’s really worried about some Allied airmen stuck on the French side of the border.’

  The situation is so critical that the British Ambassador to Spain has actually lodged an official protest. Sir Samuel Hoare is one of Chamberlain’s old friends and an arch appeaser, and Veronica’s always regarded him as completely useless. She says Mr Churchill sent him to Spain to get rid of him. However, Sir Samuel has, on this occasion, pointed out rather forcefully that Spain is in violation of the Hague Convention if it treats escaped prisoners of war in this manner, so the Spanish government has backed down a bit. Franco’s afraid of losing British and American trade, but he also wants to keep Hitler happy, so matters are far from settled.

  Apart from the Spanish crisis, there’s also been the horrifying discovery of thousands of dead Polish officers, prisoners of war who’d been executed and dumped in mass graves in Katyn Forest. My f
irst thought was of Peter, that Polish pilot I’d met a couple of years ago – I remembered he’d told me his brothers, both army officers, had vanished in 1939, during the invasion of his homeland. What if they are among the dead? Not that I know if Peter himself is still alive. Anyway, the discovery of the graves was announced by the Nazis, who are blaming the Soviets for the massacre. The Soviets deny it. They claim the Polish prisoners were working in the forest when they were captured and executed by the Nazis. However, it seems the men were killed in early 1940, when the area was still under Soviet control, so the Nazis may, for once, be telling the truth.

  ‘The whole thing’s so terrible,’ said Veronica. ‘I mean, apart from the horrible loss of life – and killing prisoners of war, which is illegal – the Nazis are using this to drive a wedge between the Allied nations. The Polish government-in-exile is absolutely furious, of course, and wants an independent investigation by the Red Cross, so the Soviet Union’s broken off diplomatic relations with the Poles. And now it seems the British and the Americans are going to support the Soviets.’

  ‘Does Mr Churchill think it was really the Nazis who killed all those men?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, no, he understands it’s far more likely the Soviets were responsible. But as the Soviets are doing most of the fighting against the Nazis, the Soviets’ demands trump those of the Poles. This isn’t about discovering the truth. It’s about winning the war.’

  And then, in the midst of all this, I discovered that Henry has been pestering the Colonel! It’s quite possible he’s the one trying to calm down General Sikorski, the Polish Prime Minister, and set up new meetings with the Soviets. The last thing the poor Colonel needs right now is to have to deal with Henry’s nonsense about joining the Wrens, but I received this note in the post today:

  My dear Sophie,

  Enclosed is a letter your sister sent to me. I trust your judgement entirely, so if you approve of her plans, let me know and I’ll do what I can to assist.